Title

Author’s Note

Author’s note:

For a list of tropes and CWs, please visit the author’s website

FROM THE PERVY HEART OF THE AUTHOR

To Layla Frost’s Cupcakes, thank you for being you. I am so lucky that out of all the websites available, you choose to spend part of your day with me. Thank you for helping me live my dream by reading my words.

Thank you to Layla’s Naughty Review Team for always going with the flow and being flexible with me. One day I’ll be a good adult. Maybe…

Thank you to Beth for your amazing proofreading skills, Kari March with www.karimarch.com for the beautiful cover, and Jenny Sims with www.editing4indies.com for the hard work!

As always, thank you to Brynne Asher and Sarah Curtis for being amazingly supportive friends.

To M- Thank you for the constant inspiration, encouragement, coffee, and dick… And not necessarily in that order.

Dedication

To the cracked vases in danger of shattering completely…

You’re stronger than you think.

PROLOGUE

MAC

Nineteen Weeks Ago

I can’t believe it.

How?

I just…

What?

I’d felt off.

Tired.

No. Exhausted.

Sick to my stomach in a way that went far beyond any stomach bug or flu I’d ever had.

That nausea should’ve been a good indication of what was happening, but it hadn’t occurred to me since it wasn’t exclusive to the morning.

Wasn’t morning sickness supposed to just be in the morning?

Apparently not.

Before I took the time to schlep myself to a doctor’s office—one of my least favorite places in the world—I’d decided to consult Dr. Google with my symptoms. Almost every result gave the same diagnosis.

I thought there was no way.

They were wrong.

It was impossible.

Yet as I stared down at the white stick in my shaking hands, I saw the undeniable proof of it.

I can’t even…

Is this…

How am I going to tell him?

Like I’d summoned him from my thoughts, my fiancé burst through the bathroom door. I must’ve failed to lock it in my distracted hurry.

Stupid.

I didn’t even bother to hide what I held. His gaze was already zeroed in on it.

“Well?” he prompted, his face carefully blank.

I turned it so he could see.

Two pink lines.

Two very dark pink lines.

“Honey,” he drawled, though his expression gave me nothing.

My heart squeezed and my stomach felt hollow—though the pregnancy test confirmed it was very much not.

It didn’t matter that he needed to leave for work—I’d thought he was already gone—Eddie closed the distance between us. I jolted as he suddenly dropped to his knees in front of me with no regard to how his clothes would rumple. His large hands wrapped around my sides, his thumbs stroking my still flat stomach.

“I love you,” he whispered to my stomach, making my chest feel like it was going to burst. The feeling only grew when his hazel eyes looked up at me. “Are you happy?”

It was unplanned. A total shock. So many thoughts and emotions rushed through my head, but there was happiness. A lot of it.

I’m going to have a baby.

I ran my hand through his hair, spotting more salt mixing with the pepper at his temples. It just added to his handsome features. Smiling down at him, I nodded, too overwhelmed to choke out the words.

“Good, honey,” he whispered before grinning up at me. “I mean, good, Mama.”

Mama.

Planting a kiss on my stomach, Eddie stood and righted his clothes before gripping my cheeks. He pulled me close so he could kiss me long and hard and demanding—always demanding. “I knew it was just a matter of time. This is the best news. This,” his hands dropped back to my stomach, “is everything.”

With one last kiss, he released me and started walking. He paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder expectantly.

I repeated the same words I said every time he left. “Stay safe.”

“I will…” He grinned. “Mama.”

Mama.

I’m going to be a mama.

1. A Front Yard Steroid Scandal

CHAPTER 1

A FRONT YARD STEROID SCANDAL

HOLLYWOOD

Fuck, I was tired.

Not just physically—though I was sure as shit that, too.

Riding up the coast to Maine, then down to North Carolina before returning home to Massachusetts within two days would wear on anyone.

After all those hours on my bike, my ass hurt. My thighs ached like I’d done a thousand squats. My arms muscles still twitched. Toxic sludge energy drinks and shitty gas station coffee were all that fueled my body.

But it wasn’t the physical exhaustion that got to me.

It was the mental kind.

I was being a pussy. Knew it. Owned it. That shit might have been hard on me and my brothers, but it was far worse for the people we helped escape their nightmares. Their monsters.

And there were always people.

Always nightmares.

Always fuckin’ monsters.

And that was why the exhaustion had sunk deep into my bones, leaving me defeated. Discouraged. Kicked in the damn crotch and spit on.

’Cause it was never-fuckin’-ending.

Slowly climbing off my bike, I headed for my house as something caught my eye. I looked over to see a moving van parked at the curb next door. Usually, I was a nosy fucker, but I was too tired to give a damn. I hiked my pack up my arm and walked up my front steps.

I didn’t give a damn who was moving into old Mrs. Anderson’s place.

Right up until I glanced over to see a woman holding a big box.

Fuckin’ hell.

I might’ve been wiped, but I wasn’t dead. Even from a distance, I could see she was hot as hell. And a tiny thing—maybe five-three if I included the messy bun of dark hair on top of her head.

Mrs. Anderson had been a shrill old bitch who’d hated me on sight and hadn’t been shy about showing it. She’d called the cops on me for every perceived slight—from my Harley being too loud to my lawn being too green.

Honest to God, she’d claimed the unnaturally green lawn was proof I’d used chemicals like a front yard steroid scandal.

Matters only got worse any time I had my brothers over. Especially my brother who was a brother. Seeing me having a drink in the privacy of my backyard with a Black biker automatically meant we’d been planning something evil. Running drugs, beating women, robbing houses, and whatever other bullshit accusations she’d spewed.

Since our houses were single stories with a tall wooden fence separating our yards, she’d had to climb her frail ass up a ladder to spy on me.

The nutjob.

When I’d heard she died, I couldn’t say I was sad. I could, however, say I’d toasted whatever hell she burned in. They needed the luck.

And then I’d pissed in her prized rose bush.

Last I’d heard, she left the house to her niece, and the lawyer wasn’t sure what she’d be doing with it. Since there’d been no sign indicating she’d sold the place in record time, it was a good bet the niece had decided to move in.

Hot or not, if she was anything like her aunt, I’d be steering clear.

A decision solidified when she turned to the side.

Either she’s got one hell of a food baby, or she’s knocked up.

I had no concept of how pregnancy showed, especially on such a tiny frame. She could be halfway through or ready to pop for all I knew. She awkwardly shifted her load as she walked up the porch and out of my viewpoint.

Doesn’t matter if cotton and feathers fills that thing… Her man’s a dumbass to let her lift a finger.

But it’s none of my business.

Opening my door, I walked into my place and dumped my bag on my couch.

And then I got yelled at.

“Shit, sorry.” I moved the bag to the side so a furry face could glare up at me.

Hadn’t known kittens could glare, but Dumpster could. And did, every chance she got.

‘Course, since I’d just dropped my go-bag on her, her ire was warranted.

“How’d it go?”

I hadn’t expected a response. Especially not a verbal one.

But at my question, Dumpster let out a happy purr and stretched her scrawny gray body before falling back to sleep.

“Take it you did fine on your own.”

I’d never had a pet before. Not even a goldfish. I hadn’t been sure about the protocol for leaving a cat, but Ophelia—my prez’s new wife—explained that cats weren’t like dogs. They were low maintenance. Unless I’d be gone for a while, there was no reason to fuss with a boarder or cat sitter. Just leave extra water and food, and she’d be fine.

Like O assured, Dumpster had been fine.

I wasn’t even sure she’d noticed me missing.

My thoughts were split between the trip, my upcoming week, and Dumpster as I moved to the kitchen to grab a beer. When I returned to the living room, I didn’t sprawl out on the couch with my kitten.

I moved to the window to watch the neighbor who was none of my business. I caught a glimpse of her carrying a smaller box while I took a long pull of my beer.

The dark stout hitting my taste buds and the knowledge I’d be sleeping in my own bed that night must’ve signaled to my brain that I was home and off the clock. My muscles loosened, and my shoulders relaxed.

And then my damn phone rang.

I pulled it from my pocket to hit ignore before I saw Judge’s name on the screen.

My brother—though not by blood—and motorcycle club president.

He knew I’d been coming home to crash.

He’d been the one to order it.

If he was calling, it was important.

I swiped to answer, but before I could say anything, Judge rumbled, “Fuckin’ dickhead.”

“Well, fuck you, too,” I said. “I’ll just hang up and go nap with my pussy.”

“Don’t call Dumpster your pussy,” he bit out, but I could hear the smile in his voice.

I was good at that.

Getting people to smile. Cheering them up. Helping.

“Maybe I meant a woman,” I said.

“You looked dead on your feet an hour ago. Know you work fast, but not if you’re falling asleep on the bar.”

He was right about me being dead on my feet.

He was wrong about my inability to pull a woman in that state. Didn’t matter if I was too drunk, stoned, or tired to pick them up. They’d just take the initiative to come on to me. Not that I’d take them up on it. I wouldn’t go to their place—or the bathroom stall, alley, back seat of a car, the clubhouse—with a woman unless I could give her my A game.

I had standards and a reputation, dammit.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Need you to pay Danes a visit.”

Fuckin’ hell.

Helping people escape their monsters was what the Court of Mayhem MC loved to do.

But it wasn’t what paid the bills.

Working MayCo security did. Setting up systems. Being visible muscle. Tracking down stalkers, blackmailers, or stolen items. Some PI work.

Private jobs for big shots who paid a shit-ton for quality work done discreetly.

Not that it was all on the up-and-up. We were able to work off the grid by word of mouth because we were damn good at our jobs. And sometimes that meant being on the right side of our personal moral compasses but the wrong side of the law.

It was our sweet spot.

And usually, I enjoyed it.

But not when it came to that job.

We had our pick of clients, but if the price was right or the job was interesting, we took on pain-in-the-ass clients. Scared. Paranoid. Egotistical pricks.

Elliot Danes was all of that and more.

We’d only started the job the week before, but in that time, he’d claimed Glitch and I had hit on his wife. Then he’d accused his wife of throwing herself at us when she’d offered us coffee.

Mrs. Danes was a lovely lady and all, but she was a full-on suburban mom—pretty, wholesome, drove a minivan, cut organic apple slices for her teenagers, wore shirts about being blessed, the whole nine. Nothing wrong with that, but it wasn’t exactly my type.

And we weren’t her type, either. She wasn’t a motorcycle club bunny. She sure as shit wasn’t trying to live, laugh, love her way into a biker Eiffel Tower.

I’d say money corrupted and made people paranoid, but that wasn’t true.

Money gave people the balls to be who they truly were.

And most people were truly dickheads.

“He’s not on my schedule till next week.”

“Change of plans. He called today. Repeatedly.”

It was getting harder and harder to bite my tongue around Danes, so I said, “Send Glitch.”

“Can’t,” Judge shot back. “He doesn’t want Glitch involved anymore. Something about him trying to fuck his wife.”

“What a load of bullshit.”

“You sayin’ Glitch doesn’t wanna knock Mrs. Danes’ sensible shoes off?”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with sensible shoes,” I heard O snap in the background. “I wear them at work, and unlike these shitkickers, they don’t give me blisters.”

Ophelia used to work as a nurse in a ritzy retirement facility before Judge ‘temporarily restrained’ her.

Kidnapped.

He’d kidnapped her.

Once she’d gotten a taste of Mayhem in her life, she’d quit to take care of our sorry asses.

I, for one, appreciated having a nurse around. She’d patched us up when Haze and I were mysteriously jumped outside a bar. She had the best hangover remedies. She sure as shit had a better bedside manner for patching up road rash and busted knuckles than any of the brothers.

And she asked fewer questions than a hospital would.

“Hush, woman,” Judge said. “You worked in those heels and that sexy as fuck outfit you wore for me last week. Don’t ruin the fantasy.”

Ophelia let out a soft laugh. “Your fantasy is me wearing that around other—”

“Great. It’s fuckin’ ruined, princess,” Judge bit out.

“That’s on you, psycho.”

I was used to their back and forth. We all were. For as long as we’d been Court of Mayhem, Judge had lived and breathed the club—until Ophelia. We were happy he had something else to obsess over.

But that didn’t mean I wanted to hear where their conversation would inevitably lead.

“I’ll go,” I cut in.

“Huh?” Judge muttered distractedly before getting back on track. “Right. Appreciate it. Try to figure out some new angles. Have any issues, call me.”

I focused out the window in time to see my new neighbor struggle to pull a tote out of the back of the van. I expected to see a man storm down the walkway, but there was no one.

There hadn’t been anyone else the whole time I’d been standing there like a stalker.

“Can you gimme an hour?”

“I’ll let him know,” Judge said as I clicked off.

I had a walkway to storm down.

2. Welcome Home, Noodle Arms

CHAPTER 2

WELCOME HOME, NOODLE ARMS

MAC

I hurt.

My arms are noodles.

My legs are noodles.

Great, now I want noodles.

Wrapped up in trying to ignore the ache that’d infused every inch of my body, my sudden craving for noodles, and the fact the tote wouldn’t unwedge itself from the van, I didn’t notice anyone.

Not until I turned in a frustrated huff and ran into a wall.

Since I was in the road, it seemed like an odd place for someone to suddenly build a wall. Unless a cartoon coyote built it to trick a roadrunner, of course.

Not to mention, walls didn’t have arms that tried to reach out and steady me before I dodged them.

They also weren’t made of solid muscle.

“You okay?” the wall asked, his voice impossibly deep and rough.

Instead of answering, I rushed to apologize. “I’m the one who ran into you. Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were there.”

His lips hitched up on one side, a deep dimple forming. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

His smile—and two dimples—grew. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

I could understand why my concern amused him. Given his size, I could launch myself at him at full force, and it’d likely feel like getting hit by a feather.

Given his everything, I could launch myself at him for a variety of reasons.

Hypothetically, not actually.

Never actually.

It was just the hormones speaking.

Okay, and the fact he looked like a male model who’d stepped off the cover of a magazine—insanely tall, even more insanely muscular, with mussed blond hair and mesmerizing blue eyes.

Maybe not a magazine. Since he wore one of those leather vest thingies, maybe off the set of a gritty motorcycle TV drama.

The wall’s gaze moved to my house before returning to me. “Where’s he?”

Is there another model running around here? Because that’s the kind of scenery I’d enjoy way more than the rose bushes.

From a distance, of course.

“Who?” I asked.

“Your man.”

Caught off guard by his blunt and presumptuous question, a pang hit my chest. It knocked the air from my lungs and the sense from my head. I didn’t stop to think before saying, “It’s… I… He’s… gone.”

As soon as the words left my mouth like water rushing past a broken dam, regret followed.

It was stupid.

I was stupid.

Not just because of the unintentional show of emotion that suddenly clogged my throat.

But also because of how careless my admission had been.

It wasn’t that he was a wall of muscles. His visible tattoos didn’t make me jump to conclusions. It was that he was a… well, a he. A giant stranger, and I’d just blabbed that I was completely alone.

That no one would notice me missing.

I have no sense of self-preservation.

I’m a walking true-crime podcast in the making.

I opened my mouth to lie and say someone was just getting lunch, but my missing verbal dam suddenly decided to repair itself. I couldn’t push the words out.

It didn’t matter anyway. There was no malice on the wall’s expression as it softened in sympathy.

The way he looked at me was almost worse than if he’d been evil or skeevy.

Not really, but it didn’t feel great.

His voice was even gentler than the look on his face. “Go sit down, Mama.”

“Why?”

But rather than answer, he continued giving options to an order I didn’t understand. “You don’t feel comfortable inside, you can chill at my place while you wait. I’ve got a helluva setup in my backyard. Or sit in your van. Doesn’t matter, I’ll be fast.”

I was lost. Completely. I blinked up at him, trying to piece together what the hell he was talking about. “Fast with what?”

“Unloading your van.”

I jerked back in surprise even as a swirl of warmth twisted in my chest at his kind offer. Still, I couldn’t accept. “I’m already doing it.”

“But you shouldn’t be.”

The friendly warmth cooled to iciness, and I shot him a glacier glare. “I’m pregnant, not incapable. I can carry boxes.”

Kind of.

There wasn’t much in the van, but the drive had been harder than I’d expected. My arms and legs were tired, and muscles I hadn’t even known existed were sore just from sitting.

But I had the rental for another day. I could take my time.

“Never said you couldn’t,” he shot back. “Got nothing to do with you being pregnant.”

“Then what?”

“Just ’cause you can do something doesn’t mean you gotta.” He lifted his chin toward the house. “Go sit, Mama.”

It was the second time he’d called me that, and the second time it’d sent a potent rush of far too many emotions twisting through me. The hormones did that enough, I couldn’t let him add to the havoc.

“Mac,” I blurted before amending, “my name is Mac.”

“Hollywood,” he bizarrely said.

“Uh, Vegas?” At his grin, I felt my own mouth pulling into a matching one, albeit smaller.

I couldn’t even remember the last time that’d happened without me forcing it.

“Are we not naming off random cities?” I asked.

He shook his head. “It’s what people call me.”

“Your name is Hollywood?”

“My name is Ward but the only people who call me that are telemarketers and cops.”

My eyes went so big, I thought they were gonna pop out of my head.

And then I started choking.

On my own spit.

This is just a fantastic way to die. Choking to death on my own spit in front of a hot guy named Ward who goes by Hollywood.

Perfect.

While I was happy to stand there, begrudging my luck in life and death, Hollywood wasn’t. His panicked gaze dropped to my stomach, like I was going to cough until my baby shot out of me, torpedo style. “Water.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when he gripped my arm. He dragged my coughing self into the tiny house that smelled like moth balls and dead flowers. He didn’t waver before leading me straight to the kitchen. Not that it was a giant house, but I had no clue what was where, so his ease of navigation was surprising.

It took him a couple of cabinets before he found the glasses that’d been left behind. Filling one from the sink, he thrust it at me.

I took the water and chugged it.

Gross.

I wasn’t the biggest fan of plain water anyway. As my dad used to say, fish peed in it. But tepid was the worst. I’d rather guzzle hot sauce.

Hollywood pulled out a wooden kitchen chair that was covered in the same lace doily as eighty percent of the surfaces in the house. “Sit.”

“I’ve been sitting all day. Standing feels good.”

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